


So Sweet My Love, Don't Break Away

by james



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, First Times, Mild Angst, because boys are dumb, introspective, slightly ambiguous ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: Napoleon is getting used to his new life, his new job, his new partners.  Everything is just fine.  Luckily, Gaby is smarter than he is.
Relationships: Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	So Sweet My Love, Don't Break Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheila_amour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheila_amour/gifts).



Napoleon had loved hundreds of times. That was to say, never in love, only loved – appreciated, worshiped, taken untold delights in – hundreds of women. Sometimes it was all part of the job, a delightful distraction. Sometimes it was for fun, a reward to himself for a job well done elsewhere or simply unable to bypass temptation. He liked to end his work with a bang, as it were, and it was always – mostly – worth his while. He couldn't specifically recall regretting any one of them, even if occasionally he might have done something differently, once he had the benefit of hindsight.

The time he'd been chased out of the duke's mansion and across the grounds by dogs while wearing only one sock and a necklace came very, very close to regret, but the lady's charms _had_ been worth it after all, as had been the sale of the necklace. He might have wished he'd worn a slightly less nice suit, and certainly not worn his favorite watch – he'd had to go back to Milan and steal another one and it had never seemed fit the same as the first.

But as much as he knew of loving and making love, as much as he dallied with and was the recipient of many a whispered confession, he knew he had never truly fallen in love before. Much better, in his opinion, to take the enjoyments on offer and remain free of the entanglements that came with _emotion._

It was difficult to reconcile all of that with the way he kept thinking about her.

At first it was simply his intention to understand her; of course he wanted to know what his new partner was capable of. He spent as much time studying (and provoking) Kuryakin. Napoleon had made the mistake of initially thinking the Red Peril was the more important to understand; it wasn't until after the conclusion of their first mission that he realised that Teller was the more vital to know what made her tick. Peril was really quite straightforward once you knew what his priorities were and what was likely to set him off. Teller, on the other hand, was never as obvious as she made herself seem.

Certainly she was more intriguing to contemplate, and Napoleon amused himself by watching her dance around Kuryakin, learning where his buttons where and how to press them to get what she wanted. She'd tried it with him, as well, but a few weeks in Napoleon sat her down at a quiet dinner and told her to stop it, just ask him whatever she wanted and he would answer – when he wanted to. But if she kept trying to take him apart just to see what made _him_ tick, he was going to be annoyed.

She'd smirked at him, then spent the rest of the evening complimenting his cooking and talking about the latest fashion in swimwear and whether Oleg Cassini was an French spy. (He was not; Napoleon's money was on him being a _Russian_ spy.)

Cassini's designs were popular, Napoleon had agreed, and he allowed that he would always be delighted to assist any charming lady in trying out various swimsuits of his style. He'd smiled and made the offer to Gaby, knowing she would never take him up on such a thing, but he'd hoped, at least, to make her smile. 

She'd simply given him a thoughtful look and said, rather seriously, that perhaps she would one day wear one of Cassini's wedding dresses.

Let it not be said Napoleon Solo could not take a hint, so naturally he'd backed off and spent the next several months focusing on learning to work with his partners. They both drove him mad, of course, in different ways and for different reasons. Where at least he could take satisfaction in giving Kuryakin a punch in the face if he needed it (or, more satisfyingly, a car door, a entire brick wall, or the body of a THRUSH henchman), it was more difficult to work out his frustrations with Teller.

She was, more or less, easy to work with once they got used to each other. He never assumed she was telling them the truth – but then he never assumed that of anyone, and it kept him mostly out of trouble. But as they got more familiar with one another, all three of them began to relax and – Napoleon was still hesitant to say it – enjoy one another's company.

Kuryakin even seemed to tolerate it as well – or he didn't growl nearly so much – when Napoleon arranged to let him take a punch meant for Solo, or when Napoleon “accidentally” dropped an entire can of paint on his head. He gave as well as he got, and Napoleon was submitting every “ruined suit” reimbursement to U.N.C.L.E. that he needed to.

Despite himself, it was somehow all starting to take on a sense of fun instead of the grudging competition they'd had at the beginning. He would never say he liked the man – even if he _did,_ he would never _say_ it, unless doing so would distract Kuryakin at some key moment.

But Gaby. Well, he didn't have an explanation for how he felt about Gaby. She was good at her job, a job which Napoleon still didn't want, but found himself stuck with for the rest of the foreseeable future. She was trustworthy, to an extent; he could trust her to get her own job done and let him and Peril dangle from a tree. _Learn not to get thrown out of airplanes,_ she'd said, when Napoleon had asked her if she couldn't have lent them a hand.

He watched how she'd slowly kept dancing around Kuryakin, willing to leave them to it even if he didn't think the giant Russian bear really understood what was happening. It was entertaining to be sure, and Napoleon wondered at times if he ought to offer Peril some advice or leave it to Gaby to explain things to him. So far he'd left it to her, since she certainly had the ability to state her intentions if she wanted to.

But once their team got settled, Napoleon realised he didn't actually know what his partners were actually doing. They didn't seem to be together, neither openly nor secretly, but neither had Gaby seemed to have given up _stalking_ him like a lioness toying with her prey. But then neither of them acted like they felt anything for one another; neither showed any more or less concern than when it was Napoleon who was out of radio contact or captured temporarily by the enemy. 

It was fucking perplexing, and Napoleon hated most the fact that he couldn't figure it out.

They all spent time with one another when they were off-duty, though to be fair he and Kuryakin mostly did so when Peril wanted to criticize Napoleon's fighting form and rough him up in the name of sparring. Napoleon spent time with Gaby in much more relaxing venues, cooking and trading recipes and stories of expensive art. The three of them sometimes unwound together at the end of a mission, if the job ended with no one trying to sneak out of hospital.

But he saw Gaby looking at Illya sometimes, and he wanted to say he understood that look. He saw Illya looking back, sometimes, and Napoleon wanted to say he laughed at the man's confusion. But then he wasn't so confused after awhile, and the way the two of them were starting to work together easily, communicating without words, the way one of their hands would brush against the other's-- 

Napoleon knew what he was seeing and he didn't understand why he cared.

He left them to it, stayed away as much as he could when it seemed like they would prefer one another's company more than his. He continued to find himself other, charming and delightful companions, sneaking out of bedrooms at all hours of the night. Often he left with tokens of affection tucked away, both with and without the knowledge of their previous owners.

And he found himself watching Gaby, watching the way she moved, the way she tilted her head when she was listening. He kept trying to find ways to make her smile, make her laugh out loud – and he told himself that it wasn't his place. Even if Kuryakin couldn't seem to manage to do any of those things, Gaby deserved someone who would make her happy.

Maybe Illya made her laugh in private. Maybe she was the sort of person who didn't need to.

Napoleon asked himself why the fuck he kept trying, because it wasn't as though he was in love.

He sat in his flat, a week after they'd returned home from yet another mission. Reports had been made and printed in triplicate before being redacted, then a quiet supper with the three of them playing cards and pretending no one had nearly died. Now Napoleon was sitting with a bottle of wine open on the table, and was thinking about making lasagna to go with it, knowing he would do nothing of the sort. It would be a cold sandwich and the whole bottle, and maybe he would turn on the television and let its dull noise help him drift to sleep.

There was a knock at the door, and he started. Swiftly making sure he looked fairly decent – he was wearing a dressing gown drawn over pajamas, but he didn't want to look like he'd been sitting forlornly by the window for hours. He went to answer the door, forcing his face into something neutral and blinked in surprise when he saw Gaby.

She frowned at him and stepped in, brushing past him. She was dressed causally, simply, the way she tended to do when they were standing down. She wasn't trying to impress anybody, which made Napoleon relax. Well, he wasn't going to impress anyone himself, this evening. 

He watched as she walked into the front room, then turned and stood there, regarding him.

“Can I...help you?” Napoleon had no idea why she'd come by. He would have thought, perhaps, she'd be with Kuyrakin tonight. He was flying back to Moscow in the morning, his usual six-month check-in with his own bosses. 

Gaby folded her arms. “You're taking too long.”

Napoleon had no idea what to say. He shook his head, tried to think of what he'd been meant to do, that involved Gaby at all.

She made a noise of disgust, then walked right up to him, staring him square in the eyes, then placed her hands on his face. She tugged and he went, more reflex than anything, which was good because she kissed him.

His lips kissed her back, still on reflex, for which he was thankful because his brain had no idea what was going on. His arms came up to hold her because it seemed the thing to do and when she broke the kiss he waited to find out what the joke was.

“You're not very good at this, are you?” she asked, and she sounded vaguely disappointed, but not...upset. Thoughtful, like this was one more thing she was going to have to teach him about being a spy.

“I'm very good at kissing, as a matter of fact, as well as every other aspect of-- why are you kissing _me?_ ” He glanced back to see if Kuryakin was there, waiting to return one of the many punches to the head he blamed Napoleon for. “Is Peril out there?”

“Why would Illya be out in the hallway?” she asked, in that tone he knew so well, that said she thought he'd just said something very stupid.

“Because you're in here,” Napoleon said, slowly, because he didn't think he was the one being stupid. “And you kissed me. And you and he...are...?” He swirled his finger in a circle, to convey that they were some kind of 'together' even if he still didn't know exactly what.

Gaby scowled. “Is that why you haven't done anything?” Shaking her head, she kissed him again, lightly, then walked towards the kitchen. She found the bottle of wine and looked around. “Is there no supper?”

“I...yes, of course, did you...were you staying for supper?” Napoleon felt as though he was babbling, just a bit, which to be fair he thought he had good reason to be.

She gave him another one of those looks, and Napoleon felt like a scolded schoolboy. 

He straightened his stance, standing firm and regarding her. “You and Illya have...something worked out between you. And yet here you are, in my flat, acting like you're inviting yourself to stay.”

“We do,” Gaby said, glancing at the wine bottle's label. “He and I have worked out that I find you very interesting, and he is not at all interested in hearing any more about it. So since I am tired of waiting for you to _make the first move,_ I am here to make it for you.”

“I...I'm sorry. What?”

She set the bottle down and walked back to him. She stopped just a few inches away and he could smell the light scent of her – no perfume, and the soap from her morning shower had faded. Just her, the musk of her, so warm and inviting.

“I am not involved with Illya,” she said, gently. “I would like to be involved with you.”

“Oh.” Napoleon took a moment to digest this – he realised he wanted to ask questions, which appalled him at a very primal level. Here was a woman whose company he enjoyed, whom he had been thinking about very much, offering her companionship.

Did it fucking matter _why._

He kissed her, softly, and when she pressed, opened his mouth to let her in.


End file.
